Our Stillbirth Story

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Photo by Karim MANJRA on Unsplash

I have never really known grief. I have had the grandparents die. A friend of a friend. But nothing like this.

I gave birth to a perfect tiny girl but left the hospital with no baby.

I had been itching for quite some time, but honestly never thought much of it. After mentioning it to my midwives they did some bloodwork and rendered a diagnosis of Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy (ICP). The main symptom is itching with no rash. It is basically my liver not performing well and affects the normal flow of bile.  

ICP happens to about 1 in 1,000 pregnant women. I had never heard of it. I was the first case my midwives had seen. After being diagnosed an OBGYN was added to my team. He had seen this three times and told us not to worry. So, we didn’t. Our baby had a strong heartbeat so we were simply going to deliver early. We became calm and started medications. I was diagnosed on a Friday, but by Wednesday everything changed.

Our girl was quite rambunctious in my belly. I knew her schedule. I had taken Wednesday off of work and just felt different. She was off her schedule and I noticed in the morning. By that afternoon I decided to go into the hospital. And this is where things changed.

The nurses could not find a heartbeat right away, which was unusual. They called more nurses in. And then a sonogram was ordered. I remember reaching for my husband’s hand as I started to get nervous. Everyone was quiet and then everyone left. My husband crawled in bed with me to hold me in his arms. Two nurses came in with the midwife and I knew right away from their faces.

I remember seeing this chart clipped to a cupboard in front of me. The chart was held together with little black binder clips. I love these clips as a teacher. This was how I organized my life at work. I focused in on these for a second. I couldn’t look away. “I love these things,” I thought. “If I just keep looking at these things that I love maybe the rest of the world will follow.” Such a simple thing that keeps things together. These little black binder clips were keeping me together as our future unfolded before us.

“I am so sorry.”

This was all I really heard. I think there was more, but it never made its way to me.

My husband and I burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably. This was not the way things were supposed to be. After multiple years of things not going our way we really felt we were there. We were having this baby. We were parents.

There is no one to blame here. I had never heard of ICP before. I should have been more aware of my itching sooner, but I just had no idea. We were so careful and on top of SO many other things. And we will not live in the “what if” place. It is not in our nature.

I was told that I would be induced and give birth. This was hard to handle. I knew this was the next step, but it was hard to take in. It was Wednesday night and I started medication to force delivery of my baby. The only way I knew how to describe this is humiliating. I actually had to endure this physical pain without the happy outcome?  Going into labor was not supposed to be under these circumstances.

My husband never left my side for the next two days we were in the hospital. There was a small padded cot next to my bed and he slept there. I slept through some of the night, until the contractions came. In the early morning I felt them coming and did not know how to handle them. We had just started our birthing classes and had not gotten to the “pain” part. I could only think of how a dear friend described labor as a primal act. The primal part within me directed me to moan and breathe deeply. So that’s what I did. For the next 24 hours about every three minutes. It. Was. HARD.

I am sure for others who are giving birth and excited to meet their alive and healthy baby their outlook is quite different. I asked for medication to help this ache in my mind and my body. I was given multiple doses over the day. I felt high as a kite and appreciated how it sometimes consciously took me away. The pain did not stop, but I am assuming it was dulled.

My husband held my hand during every contraction. My mother came and brought non-hospital food. They watched the Warriors play basketball and then a marathon of Naked and Afraid as I came in and out of pain and consciousness.  I had said early on I wanted an epidural. There was no reason for me to try and suffer through more than I already was. When I signed for the drugs a nurse said, “We cannot tell you when is a good time to get the epidural, you must tell us.” At the time I thought, “OK, I will know.” Well, never having experienced labor I had no clue when the right time was.

I remember being asked difficult questions. Questions that I had no clue how to answer, especially on all the drugs.

“Do you want to hold your baby?”

“What will you choose to do with your baby after birth?”

“Will you name your baby?”

“Do you want pictures of your baby?”

I could not answer any of these.

The staff  was beyond kind. There was so much consideration that took place. We had never been through this… they had. They knew what to do and we were lost.

After hours of pain I started saying, “I can do hard things.” This mantra was repeated every three minutes as another contraction came.

Late that night the midwife that we bonded with the most came onto her shift. She walked in with tears. She wrapped her arms around me and held me for quite some time. She immediately told me it was time for my epidural so I could simply sleep. I was exhausted and she could tell. Within a few minutes a crowd or people came in to help administer the drug. Lights were turned on and things seemed to be moving so much faster than before. The room had been dimly lit by a small lamp in the corner. Darkness seemed like the best choice for our current condition. When the room woke up with fluorescent lighting and more people I had a hard time transitioning into the next state. I asked people for names and started thanking them for helping… It was such a surreal shift of events.

As the needle entered my spine I yelped in pain and repeated, “I can do hard things.” My midwife rubbed my back in a way that changed everything. My husband held onto my hands and I only focused on him. That shot hurt like hell but I was able to fall asleep right away.

Later into the night our midwife told me I was not dilating. She said she would need to use a balloon to get the process moving. I told her no.

Looking back I wasn’t ready to have my baby out. There was still this innocence I had. I was still pregnant and I didn’t want that to go away. Maybe everything would turn out OK if the baby just stayed in for a while longer. I know it sounds crazy, but it was all I had left. I was frightened to see my dead baby. I just wanted to keep her for a bit more. Although I never said these words, the midwife knew and left.

Around 6 AM I woke up feeling like I had to push. My husband went to get help and a nurse came in.

“Its time.”

“I can do hard things.”

Our midwife came in and said it was time to push. There were two big pushes and out our little girl came. At 6:39 AM on Friday, May 17th 2019, our daughter was born.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m scared to see the baby.”

And then the midwife put the baby on my chest and said, “She’s perfect.”

And she really was.

She looked beautiful. I had envisioned this being very scary, but it was nothing of the sort. She had my husband’s nose and my lips. She had dark hair and very long limbs. She was tall. Just like me.

These moments were very quiet and calm for me. My husband, the nurse and midwife were all crying and all of a sudden I felt like this was right where I was supposed to be. I can do hard things. With her in my arms I immediately fell asleep with her on my chest.

I woke up and handed her to my husband. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hold her, but after doing so myself I knew it was needed. He looked sad but also wonderful at the same time. He was holding our little girl and I will remember this image for the rest of my life. We were parents.

My mother came soon after and held her as well. I was nervous for this. When I saw my mom’s feet come into sight I asked her if she was still OK to do this. I just didn't want to force this upon anyone. My mother loved holding her granddaughter and this is another image I will never forget.

A nurse came and asked to take pictures. I was not ready or sure about this, but she said she would keep them for a year if I was not ready to have them now. I am so thankful she did this. We ended up getting the pictures the next day. They are something we will always treasure. I can do hard things.

We named our little one Clementine and let the nurses take her away. We both drifted off to sleep for a few hours.

We woke up to new nurses on shift and sunlight outside. My drugs had worn off and I was sober. Things hurt a lot more sober. I took a shower and couldn’t brush my hands through my hair as it was a rat’s nest. My husband stood outside the shower peeking in every few seconds  to make sure I was OK. He literally never left my side.

I put on some fresh clothes and got back into bed. The nurse asked if we would like to see Clementine again. I am so thankful I was open to this as seeing her with a drug free mind was such a gift. She was wrapped with a floral blanket, put in a wicker bassinet and even had a pink headband on. I despise headbands on babies and laughed right away.

We were very quiet and couldn’t stop looking at her. She just looked like she was sleeping. Like maybe she would wake up any second and need her parents. I gave her Kapay kisses and let them take her away. That was the last time we would see her. The last image was precious and calm.

The hospital wanted to keep me one more night and I was not having it. I wanted to go home. I wanted my dogs. I wanted my bed. We said we would monitor and call if something went wrong, but I was going home.

Walking out of the room and down the hall was hard. But we did it. We hugged the amazing nurses who made me feel seen. We opened the wide doors and stepped out into the sunshine, without our little one. Walking out the main entrance door was when it all came flooding in. We were leaving empty handed. All of the pain that it took to get here felt unreal. My husband held my hand as we headed for the car. This is our reality now. We drove silently as I wrapped my knit robe tightly around myself to feel something. All without our daughter.

We can do hard things.